


Do Not Mix With Alcohol

by SylverLining



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, One Shot, Unresolved, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7112419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylverLining/pseuds/SylverLining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pickles needs help. And not just when it comes to opening childproof caps or finding new ways to self-destruct. He asks in strange ways, for sleep, for silence, for things he doesn't know how to name. Charles reads between the lines. Completed one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Not Mix With Alcohol

The parry-and-thrust of the day’s business was finally concluded. At last, he could strike with the foil and claim the point of another day’s hard work achieved, ending the match of paperwork, discussions of a quiet, covert nature, and grapplings of a far more loud and overt one. The drudgery of legal and financial management mixed with mother-hen herding, the breaking up of bicker-fests and occasional defending was done – and he could finally close the door on it. Metaphorically and physically.

  
Charles turned the key in the lock to his office door, keeping his sanctum secure – sadly, robots were not the only ones not to be trusted in Mordhaus. Besides, he was down to his last rack of cheap lamps.

He was just about to remove the key with a satisfied flick, when a noise behind him made him stop. Part cough, part pointed ‘a-hem’, part exclamation that wasn’t any language he recognized. He turned around, not altogether surprised to see a rather disheveled and exhausted-looking Pickles half-leaning against the wall, looking up at him with an inebriated expression of – no, that couldn’t be embarrassment.  
  
“Ah, hello, Pickles.” Charles didn’t say anything more – the boys weren’t known for enjoying his company when in their favorite altered states. He tended to spoil their fun. Charles thought better of his first impulse, to tell Pickles to go to bed. He looked awful and they had a busy day of recording tomorrow – but he held his tongue. Maybe he was just passing through.

  
But no, Pickles hadn’t moved, he was still just looking at him through hazy, most likely bloodshot eyes. He almost looked as if he were trying to say something, eyes downcast, jaw working in something like quiet desperation.

  
Finally, Charles couldn’t stand it anymore, and said the only thing that came readily to mind. “…You should probably get some rest. Big day tomorrow.” No response. “That’s what I’m doing.”

  
“Uh, yeah. That’s…” Pickles swallowed hard, forced himself to look up at Charles. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Well, no, not that, but… okay… first. This.” He raised one hand that had previously been hidden by shadow; it held a yellow bottle of pills. Charles was slightly alarmed by the fact that the pills rattled like one more percussion tool – Pickles’ hand was shaking.  
He frowned, not understanding, squinted at the bottle. “What-”

  
“Don’t freak out, they’re just sleepin’ pills. Haven’t been sleepin’ good – hell, at all - in – I dunno, a long time. And these little fuckers are the only things that help, but…” Now he glared at the pills, glared at the floor, glared anywhere but Charles. “I can’t… I mean, lookit…” he held up one hand that trembled in the dark. “I know, it’s stupid. Child-proof. Can’t do it. Too much – no sleep, booze – maybe not enough. I dunno. I dunno.” He thrust out his hand, stuck the pill bottle right at Charles. “Here. Please.”

“It’s not a good idea to mix pills with alcohol. Of any kind.”

“Who says I’ve been drinking.”

“Pickles.”

“Oh, what are you, my mother?”

“No, I’m your manager. I have a responsibility to ensure the continued performance and productivity of the band - as well as its members’ safety.”

“…Okay?”

“That means I’m not going to be an accessory to any form of reckless self-”

“Oh my Gahd, fine, I’ll go find someone else.” Shaking his head, he turned to leave, and that was as good as calling Charles’ bluff, such that it was. He’d go to a bandmate who would aid, not maliciously but thoughtlessly, in his slow - or perhaps violently fast - self-destruction without a thought. Unacceptable. 

“No, I’ll help you.” Charles hesitated. “But not with these. We’re going to-”

Pickles’ bleary eyes came into focus for the first time in the form of a glare. “You want to help me? Open it.”

Sleeping pills, he’d said. Charles would believe that when the world ended in fire and ice - or not even then, given the increasing odds of various scenarios. God knew what those things actually were. Or what else Pickles had taken that night. Charles had seen him dive in and out of countless benders, alcohol and drug binges without number, but never like this. Never his skin so unhealthy a grey pallor or slick with so sick a sweat. Never the circles under his eyes so dark.

He was asking for help but it wasn’t with a pill bottle.

“Is there anything you want to-”

_“No.”_

“Fine.” Even with no intention of opening that thing, it was better to get it out of Pickles’ hand and into his. He reached out to take it, but Pickles didn’t release his grasp. He simply held onto the bottle and stared. Stared at his hand beneath Charles’, as if it belonged to another man, as if he’d never seen it before. 

“Pickles,” Charles said gently, even as he scrambled for the next step. Whatever he’d expected, it hadn’t been this silence. “Do you want me to -”

“Wait.” On this strange night, his voice was a strange, dry whisper Charles had never heard before. He took a few slow, deep breaths as Charles held very still. The silence was absolute. Not even the rattling of pills. He’d stopped shaking.

His hand loosened. The pills fell to the floor, forgotten. Pickles didn’t even look up, just kept staring at his hand – now just in Charles, nothing between them. He relaxed, slowly, until he leaned against the wall again, the only actively engaged muscles the ones in his fingers, which held tightly. But without the slightest hint of a tremor now.

They stood there for a long time. 

“Pickles,” Charles finally said, a bit more insistently than before. Those bloodshot eyes had finally closed, peacefully – if he wasn’t careful, Pickles would fall asleep right there against the wall. Still holding his hand. “What is going on here?” He asked, not at all unkindly. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Another long silence, but nothing so abrupt as the one before. This one was… uncertain. Pickles took another deep breath, let it out in a sigh. Slid his hand away, and took a slightly more stable step away from the wall, Charles, and the pills.

“Nah. Don’t worry ‘bout it. Nothing.” He turned away. “I’m gonna go. Think I can sleep now.”

“All right. I’ll… see you in the morning.” 

“Whatever. G’night.” Pickles slowly moved off into the darkness – bent and exhausted, but steady. Comforted, for the moment.  
  
Charles watched him go – then frowned at the yellow bottle left abandoned on the ground. He pocketed it and walked away down the dark hall.

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a very old one-shot with some slight re-editing. Uploading an old Metalocalypse fic at 4:02 AM has got to be the definition of "what the hell?" Hope somebody enjoys reading it as much as I did rediscovering it. It felt good.


End file.
